Cartography
by ravynechyylde
Summary: "I was only thinking that sometimes a curved path has its own rewards"


During the weeks of their petty duel of words, Altair has ample time to study his opponent. _Just as Malik would advise me to do_, he thinks sarcastically.

He recognizes the man's attention to detail, the careful sweep of his quill, and the uncanny way he draws perfectly straight lines as he drafts maps of different parts of the Kingdom on the large sheets of parchment. Altair, never one to spend time on anything that doesn't feature a blade or cause destruction, can produce some simple sentences that invariably droop as his hand scrawls the words across the breadth of the page, as though an invisible anchor weighs the letters down.

He supposes, given enough time alone with nothing else to do, he might be able to draw a straight line effortlessly, but he feels certain that his impatience would draw him away from the bureau and into the streets, eager to meet the guards' steel even if he had only one arm.

But Malik is different. While he has never seemed patient with Altair, he knows how to bide his time, how to plan a complicated mission, how to serve the Order as it needs instead of as _he _wants to serve it. What Altair might have once considered cowardice, or complacency, he now understands as selflessness, a loyalty that has run contrary to his own creed for so long.

When Altair looks at Malik, it is more often than not to avoid retribution when he says something particularly egregious. He notes the straight lines of Malik's face: the sharp points of his eyebrows raised in mockery, the even row of teeth bared in anger, the thin line of his lips pressed tightly in disapproval. These signs usually presage the strike of an inkpot against his forehead.

With time, these episodes of dodging projectiles become less frequent, which gives Altair even _more _leave to gaze at him. He notices the soft crescent of his sooty eyelashes against his cheek when his eyes are cast down in thought. His lips twitch when he is amused, as if they must work up the momentum to curl into that droll little smirk. And sometimes the curve of his neck as he gazes up through the sun-dappled grate looks quite inviting. At some point he begins to wonder what those parts of Malik, yielding and well-hidden, would taste like.

On the other hand, the predator in him – that foolhardy creature that Malik is constantly berating – wants to see that arched eyebrow leveled at him in challenge, to feel the bite of those wicked teeth, to watch that jaw clench as he resists giving in to his pleasure too soon.

It's not obvious to him which path to pleasure, straight or curved, would be most expeditious. So he watches and thinks and daydreams, once so thoroughly engrossed that Malik had barked at him that the opium dealer's alley was only a few blocks south if he had the inclination to while away his time in dreams. With a few sparse strokes, he had illustrated the necessary landmarks; one vicious stroke of his quill marked the straight line, just shy of tearing through the parchment.

"The shortest distance, as the eagle flies," he sneers. "There is your path, marked out along the rooftops."

Altair stares at him, all sharp angles and biting sarcasm. He longs to give in to the predator, to leap over the bureau counter and subdue the other man with bruising hands. He imagines the bite of the quill against his skin, perhaps drawing a faint line of blood as a testament to Malik's anger. He marvels at the depths of his own depravity before filing that fantasy away for another time.

And now Malik's furious glare is softened by puzzlement at the prolonged silence.

"Sorry, Dai," Altair says, caught off-guard by Malik's open expression. He looks down at the makeshift map so that his eyes rest on something less damning.

"What's this?" Malik's eyebrows arch, but surprise smoothes the usual peak of his eyebrows, giving them a softer curve that Altair wants to trace with his lips. "The Eagle of Masyaf admits to a failing?"

"I am sorry, Malik," Altair murmurs, "I was only thinking that sometimes a curved path has its own rewards."

Malik frowns. "I cannot think of a situation where a straight line is not best."

Altair shrugs, caught up in his metaphor. "Sometimes, the straight line is obscured, and our only option is the more roundabout way, _if _we still seek the same end." He knows they are speaking past each other, but can't yet bring himself to divulge his desires, or his faint hope that he might see that thoughtful look on Malik's face again.

"The novice has finally taken leave of his senses," he remarks to the empty room, throwing his arm up in a gesture of futility.

"Would that they were ever present," Altair murmurs in that same self-deprecating tone, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Quite so." Malik gives him one more suspicious glance, then sighs. "Now look here, fool, this is the next place you must visit to gather information…"

Altair settles in to listen, determined not to distract himself again until later that evening. He is not so intent that he does not notice the quizzical glances cast his way by the younger man.

The shortest distance is lost to them, but Altair thinks their final destinations may coincide, if the dark crescents against Malik's tanned cheek before he quickly looks away are any indication.


End file.
